


You Know

by LamentingQuill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LamentingQuill/pseuds/LamentingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 1971 Summer Ball at the Ministry, and Minerva finds herself wishing things could be different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know

** You Know **

by

_Lamenting Quill_

****

* * *

 

****

Minerva McGonagall loathed nights like this, being trapped in a room full of uppity self-righteous people whom she had to pretend to find pleasant. In reality she could hardly tolerate the mere sight of them. Yes, it was the 1971 Summer Ball, an event held annually by the Ministry of Magic so that the who’s who of the wizarding world could flaunt their achievements amongst their esteemed peers. Minerva found the entire thing completely distasteful, but she dutifully came every year to represent Hogwarts along with Albus.

At the thought of the headmaster Minerva allowed her eyes to travel over the crowd of autocratic prigs, searching for the wizard. She had left his presence for the punch bowl, having grown tired of listening to the scholarly, egotistical prattle of the group he had been cajoled into joining. She pitied the fact that Albus couldn’t disentangle himself from the circle, for it had been plain that he had been enjoying it about as much as she herself had been. Finally her eyes found him standing amongst a different group now, this one looking even worse than the last judging by the hardly noticeable lines of agitation etched discreetly into his brow. No one else would notice, but she happened to be intimately attuned to his every expressional fluctuation, no matter how infinitesimal.

If she were being completely honest with herself, the condescending narcissists were not her only reason for hating these detestable social affairs. No, it was the fact that she couldn’t act how she wished, displaying for all her affection for the man so many admired, and at whom so many women deigned it appropriate to throw themselves. She and Albus had decided long ago that their relationship should remain a secret. He had many enemies and it was his greatest fear that someone would exploit his weakness. She felt immense pride at being that weakness, but it was also a great responsibility and burden; a burden she bore freely and gladly.

It had been over fifteen years now that she and Albus had been together and kept their affections hidden. Fifteen glorious, painful years and it never got easier to pretend. She didn’t often complain. It rarely bothered her that she couldn’t smile at him with a lover’s smile in public, or hold his hand while going on a stroll, or that she had to act as no more than his friend and deputy. The only time the pretending bothered her were nights such as these.

She took a sip of her cool glass of punch, her eyes still trained on the man she loved. His auburn hair was finally conceding to the grey, and there were far more worry lines in his face than when she had first met him all those years ago as his student. But he was still every bit the man he had always been; tall and noble, strong and powerful. His blue eyes still twinkled in that knowing way, his lips still curved into a boyish smile, and his hands still reached for her every night in their bed. No, they weren’t married. They never would be. A marriage certificate, while a mere piece of parchment, would be a liability to him – to her. It was a risk they couldn’t afford and she understood. Not merely for her safety, but for the school. She was certain that the Board of Governors would not approve of their relationship, and she knew that Hogwarts needed Albus, needed them both. Her heart didn’t need a piece of paper to prove she was Albus’s wife.

She watched Albus conversing with an old man that she didn’t know – watched how he moved his hands to illustrate a point. She loved his hands. They were always there for her when she needed them, to hold her tight, dry her tears, or bring her body to the heights of pleasure. He always spoke to her with his hands, bestowing sweet caresses upon her flesh, brushing her hair back from her face, rubbing her back gently until she fell asleep. It was little gestures such as these that told her he loved her, for Albus had never been able to speak the words.

The exact reason why she didn’t know and she doubted she ever would, for she never asked him and she never planned on doing so. Perhaps it was his fear that if he voiced those three little words something would happen to her, or maybe he thought words couldn’t do his feelings justice. Whatever his reason, it was fine with her. She didn’t need words, for his actions everyday spoke far louder. She was forty-five years old, she definitely wasn’t a silly little girl caught up in wild romantic notions.

But still, there was that part of her that she kept buried deep inside, the part that only surfaced on these horrid nights; the part that wanted the entire world to know that she belonged to _him_ and that he loved her. It did no good to linger on such notions, however, for they could never be fulfilled. She would never regret being with Albus and agreeing to keep their union secret, but she couldn’t help to occasionally lament over the little things that they were unable to do with one another.

Minerva shook herself from her melancholy thoughts as she noticed that her lover had managed to break away from the conversation – which he had no doubt been roped into – and was beginning to make his way over. She allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up almost imperceptibly as he approached, and she saw the answering twinkle in his blue eyes. He stopped to stand in front of her a respectable distance away and nodded his head to her in polite greeting.

“Professor McGonagall, I was wondering if you would do me the honour of sharing a dance with me,” he said, holding his hand out to her in a gentlemanly gesture.

Placing her glass of punch on the table she nodded. “It would be my pleasure, Headmaster Dumbledore,” she said, slipping her hand into his, careful not to make the touch more intimate than was considered proper.

She allowed him to lead her out onto the crowded dance floor, allowing one hand to come to rest delicately on his shoulder, leaving the other in his grasp as he placed his hand carefully on her waist as he began to lead her in a waltz. She kept her back rigid as they danced, not allowing herself to relax in fear of betraying her true affections. She made sure to keep the proper space between their bodies, no matter how she wished to close the distance and rest her head upon his strong shoulder. His fingers were tense on her waist, and she knew it was because he feared his hand would stray if he relaxed them, and that knowledge brought her comfort. She knew that it wasn’t only she that wished their relationship could be different, but neither despaired what they had for it was something truly amazing, even if they were the only ones who knew.

She felt a sudden rush of affection for the wizard before her. He always went out of his way to make her feel special when they were alone, to make sure that she always felt cherished and never neglected and she loved him for it. He always made sure to dance with her as much as possible at these events, even though they couldn’t dance as intimately as they would prefer. It was one of his ways of letting her know how he felt, letting her know that she was his. She met Albus’s eyes and she saw the recognition there – knew that he was aware of what she was thinking. They didn’t need magical assistance to communicate silently; it came from years of knowing one another and not being able to voice certain thoughts in company.

Their silent connection, however, was broken quite rudely by the clearing of a throat and an annoying tap on Minerva’s shoulder. Looking reluctantly away from her lover, she saw a pretty witch standing before her wearing lush peach robes, her blonde hair pulled back into an elegant French twist. She looked to be in her late thirties, by Minerva’s judgement.

“Excuse me, Professor McGonagall, but I was wondering if I might cut in,” she said sweetly, causing Minerva to feel sick.

She refused to look at Albus as she let her hand fall from his shoulder and took a gracious step back, no matter the pain it caused her to do so. As much as she wanted to tell the witch in no minced words to bugger off, she knew that she couldn’t. “Of course,” she said, in her normal brisk tone before turning to curtsy slightly to Albus, still avoiding his gaze, not wanting to see the apology in his cerulean eyes. “Thank you for the dance, Headmaster,” she said, before walking gracefully off the dance floor, not looking back for she didn’t want to see the little chit in her lover’s arms.

Feeling too smothered in the crowded room and in no mood for moronic conversation, she made her way to the large glass doors that led outside the ballroom to a small balcony, which was thankfully devoid of any socialites. It wasn’t actually outside, for the ballroom was located several floors below ground inside the Ministry building, but it was charmed to look like the outdoors, complete with a magical garden and fairies lighting the flowers. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of various blossoms, and let her eyes fall closed as she tried to regain her composure. She could still hear the faint music coming from inside along with the indistinguishable chatter and laughter of the party, but she felt better out here, away from _her_.

It was perhaps the hardest part about these functions, having to watch the women flirt with Albus, dance with him, eye him predatorily. It was excruciating for her, even though she knew he paid no mind to their advances. She knew that he loved her, and she knew that he would never betray her trust. But the knowledge didn’t make it any easier to watch the coquettish women spout their honeyed words and bat their eyelashes at him. The unfairness of it made her nauseous, the fact that women who didn’t even truly know Albus could just saunter up to him and do and say whatever they wished, when she, who had been involved with the man for fifteen years, could not.

The words of consent she had uttered to the pretty witch in the peach robes had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and an even more bitter feeling in her heart. She wasn’t bitter with Albus, by any means, but at their situation. She was never happier than when she was in her lover’s arms, and she longed for the world to know. She always had to be on her guard, careful not to betray her feelings, always appearing strict and often coming across as cold she was sure, but it couldn’t be helped. If she relaxed, if she ever lowered the strong barrier she wore in public everyone would see right through her, and she would crumble into a thousand tiny pieces that would spell out her lover’s name. She couldn’t allow that to happen; she had made her promise of secrecy to Albus long ago, and she would continue to honour it, just as he would continue to honour his.

She heard the opening and closing of the door behind her, and she didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. She was always aware of him when he was in her presence. He didn’t speak as he came to stand beside her, the small balcony allowing him to stand close to her without anyone questioning their nearness. She didn’t turn to look at him, but she saw his hands reach out to grip the iron bars of the balcony’s barrier, and she knew it was to keep them from reaching for her.

“The scenery out here is lovely,” he commented quietly, and she only nodded in response. “I wish it were different,” he said in the same tone, though Minerva knew he was not talking about the scenery. However, that was what one would infer if they happened to overhear the comment.

She cleared her throat, still not turning her attention away from watching the fairies as they glowed amongst the flowers. His words brought her back to reality. She knew that he wished things were different, just as much as she did. She felt guilty for allowing her melancholy thoughts to consume her tonight. “Sometimes…” she began softly, “it is not the scenery that needs to be different, but one’s perspective. I fear I am guilty of occasionally not seeing the stars through the clouds.” And it was true. On these wretched social occasions she did look only at the clouds, seeing only what she couldn’t do. She may not be able to display her affections openly for Albus, but she was afforded the privilege of going home with him every night, and waking up with him every morning. She got to be the one he came to when he was troubled, when he needed support, and she was grateful. But sometimes… sometimes she wished things were different, and she always felt guilty for doing so.

She could feel his eyes on her, studying her as they fell back into silence. She wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling in this moment. Was he longing to kiss her the way that she was longing for him to? Was he as saddened by the knowledge that he couldn’t as she was? Was he ashamed of her for not being stronger, not being able to bear the weight of their secret at these functions as she should be able? She felt tears beginning to gather in her eyes, and she blinked fiercely, cursing herself for her weakness.

“Minerva,” he whispered, so quietly that she almost hadn’t heard it.

Taking a steadying breath, she turned her head to meet his gaze, feeling her heart warm at the intensity that she found there. She saw everything that she needed to: his love for her, his want, his passion, his regrets, his wishes and his devotion. She saw it, and she cherished it, but not nearly as much as she cherished his next words.

“You know.”

It hadn’t been a question, but a serious statement. It was always the closest he ever came to saying those three special words, and it always meant the world to her. “Yes,” she whispered. “I know.” She couldn’t hold back the tear that escaped its confines to roll slowly down her cheek, and even though Albus couldn’t brush it away, she knew that he wanted to. It was enough.

It would always be enough.

 

 


End file.
